


Love, How it Hurts

by dracoqueen22



Series: Number One Crush [3]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Desk Sex, Light restraint, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, Sticky, Threesome - M/M/M, Twincest, light painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, Ratchet's the one on the naughty list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, How it Hurts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the twinsxratch livejournal community's Wrench of Inspiration and the kink prompt "spanking".

It was late. Too late. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were going to moan and groan about this for weeks, just like last time. Well, the little hellions would get over it. Ratchet had responsibilities, he was chief medical officer. He couldn't just abandon his duties because his shift was over.  
  
Primus! He'd never met two more whiny warriors in his entire functioning.  
  
The berth's cold. It's too quiet. Why don't you pay more attention to us? Whine, whine, whine and then came the pouts, Sideswipe more pitiful and Sunstreaker more disappointed and then after that, was the guilt. Oh, the guilt was the worst.  
  
Owned. Completely and pathetically was Ratchet owned.  
  
Shaking his helm, Ratchet stuffed several more datapads into his overflowing cabinet. It was about time he asked Grapple to build him another.  
  
He turned back toward his desk. Only a dozen more reports left to sign off on and organize and then he could leave to go cuddle-- errr, have dinner with his twins.  
  
His lights flickered. Ratchet paused, optics cycling down. What in Primus' designation...?  
  
He frowned, activating his comm. --Prowl?--  
  
No answer. And Prowl wasn't the sort to shirk his duties.  
  
Ratchet frowned again, running a diagnostic. No, his comms were working just fine, both receiving and transmitting. His message just wasn't getting out. Almost as if--  
  
The lights went out completely. Ratchet wasn't exactly helpless here though he was a bit unnerved. No communication usually meant Soundwave was about, but Red Alert would have already sounded the alarms if he'd detected even the slightest hint of a Decepticon presence. The emergency systems ran on a completely different grid so even if the power was cut, alarms should still be raised.  
  
Ratchet turned on his headlights, sweeping them through his office. His door should at least be open.  
  
Something flashed.  
  
Ratchet's suspicions grew.  
  
He felt a burst of humor, satisfaction even, in a mech's energy field and then something struck Ratchet in the center of his back, propelling him forward. He stumbled, swore heartily, and struck the edge of his desk.  
  
Red flashed in front of Ratchet's headlights. Servos snapped out of the darkness, grabbing his wrists, pulling him forward into a graceless sprawl across his desk. Everything on his desk was swept aside as his servos were pinned down.  
  
It happened so quickly Ratchet barely had time to process it all before he felt servos on his aft, sliding up toward the base of his backstrut and back down again, obviously groping.  
  
Ratchet knew, in that instant, the perpetrators of this so-called attack, and promptly reined in his carefully honed battle reflexes.  
  
“I am going to turn you both into mopeds if you don't give me an explanation,” Ratchet growled, tugging ineffectually at the servos pinning him – Sideswipe, he assumed by the brief flash of red he saw earlier.  
  
Sideswipe laughed, the lighter tenor of his vocals easily identified in the dark of Ratchet's office.  
  
Behind Ratchet, a knee nudged between his legs. It had to be Sunstreaker who was currently groping him, servos roaming and tweaking and generally making a teasing nuisance of themselves.  
  
There was a flicker and then the lights came back on, Ratchet's optics cycling down in surprise. And sure enough, Sideswipe was in front of him, smirking like a devil, with erotic promise in his optics.  
  
“Hello, beautiful,” he purred. “Fancy running into you here.”  
  
Ratchet shifted against his desk, armor grating against the solid surface. “I'm not hearing an explanation!”  
  
A servo slapped against his aft and Ratchet jerked, surprised by the sudden strike, though it hadn't hurt in the slightest. His battle armor could take more than that.  
  
He pulled on his wrists, glaring at Sideswipe. “What the frag do you think you're doing?” he snarled.  
  
“Punishment,” Sunstreaker rumbled, his servo smoothing over Ratchet's aft where he'd laid the pitiful slap.  
  
Sideswipe leaned closer, the curve of his lipplates suggesting this was his idea and, per the usual, Sunstreaker had gone along with it. “For the crime of ignoring us.”  
  
“Ignoring you?” Ratchet spluttered and his vocalizer shorted as Sunstreaker gave him another light smack across the aft. “You fraggers! I have a job! Responsibilities! I--”  
  
He shouted, something wordless and full of ire, as Sunstreaker's palm hit his aft again, in two sharp, successive smacks that left him tingling. The sound of metal striking metal seemed to ring in the room, vibrating in his audials.  
  
Ratchet's digits curled against the desk, his engine rumbling.  
  
“Can't ignore us now,” Sunstreaker said.  
  
“Unless,” Sideswipe inserted with a pointed look at his brother, the mischief in his optics melting into something a bit more heated, “You are afraid. In which case, we have no choice but to let you go.”  
  
They were giving him an out. Which meant this whole scene probably originated in Sideswipe's perverted conscious and he was acting on some kinky idea. The so-called punishment was only an excuse.  
  
Sunstreaker's servo stroked his aft again, fingers dipping against the outer seams, and stroking the sensitized wires beneath. Sideswipe's hold on his wrists loosened, enough that he could work his digits into the complicated mechanisms, stirring arousal so easily.  
  
Ratchet was beaten before they even pinned him to his desk. Not that he would give in gracefully. When did he ever surrender without a fight?  
  
Ratchet revved his engine louder, the desk shaking beneath him, vibrations carrying through to both twins.  
  
“Afraid,” the medic challenged, purposefully pitching his vocals low. “The day I'm afraid of a couple of brats is the day I bow down to Megatron.”  
  
Sideswipe laughed, leaning so close Ratchet could feel the Lamborghini's ex-vents on his faceplate. “I thought you might say that.”  
  
Sunstreaker palmed his aft, a bit more roughly than before. “You never did learn when to quit.”  
  
Ratchet braced himself, but he was still startled by the sharp smack to his aft, the ring of it in the air, and the second blow that immediately followed. It didn't hurt, not pain like laser-fire or scorched lines or bent struts, but it was jarring. Stinging, perhaps, like a minor dent or a flash burn from one of Wheeljack's mistakes.  
  
A wave of heat spread across Ratchet's aft, igniting oft-ignored sensors beneath in a manner that wasn't entirely unpleasant.  
  
He gritted his denta, refusing to utter a sound, lest his two lovers think themselves the victors in this madness.  
  
“C'mon, Sunny,” Sideswipe murmured, though his optics returned to Ratchet's and never left. His intense stare was strangely exhilarating and Ratchet couldn't look away even if he tried. “You know it's gonna take more than that.”  
  
A low purr of amusement radiated from the twin behind him before another flurry of swats landed against his aft. Ratchet jerked with each one, expertly placed to overlap at times, others to strike previously untouched areas. Fire bloomed across his plating, heat building to a fine crescendo, the pain that wasn't pain confusing his sensors.  
  
And Sideswipe's optics never left his, the red twin's digits steadily squeezing Ratchet's servos, to the same rhythm of Sunstreaker's palm landing against Ratchet's aft.  
  
Ratchet squirmed, shifting against his desk, unsure if he was trying to tilt his aft away from Sunstreaker's swatting or toward. Heat poured through his circuits, gathered in his interface, throbbed through his spike. His valve clenched on nothing and it shouldn't be so arousing, but it was.  
  
Even more so when Sideswipe nuzzled his faceplate against Ratchet's, a slow slide of dermal metal against metal. Every brush of Sideswipe's ex-vents, so soft compared to the rough strike of Sunstreaker's palms, was a heady distraction.  
  
A moan slipped free before Ratchet could stop it, his wrists twisting in Sideswipe's grip, but less in a desire to free himself. It was more an unconscious reflex to his desire to move, to squirm, to hold Sideswipe against him and seek any sort of relief.  
  
“You are so fragging hot,” Sideswipe murmured against his audial, the purr of his vocals vibrating across his auditory circuits. “You're holding back but you're squirming. You think I can't tell how much you like it?”  
  
Indignation flared through Ratchet, and was just as quickly quashed by a sound smack of Sunstreaker's hand against his aft, harder than all the others, sharp enough to make him jerk and cry out. Did it hurt? He honestly couldn't tell.  
  
He braced himself for the next strike, but it didn't come. Ratchet waited, but could hear nothing but the sound of three sets of cooling fans, roaring at different speeds. That and the noise of someone's plating clattering. No. Wait. That was his own. His entire frame was trembling, pulsing with need.  
  
Sideswipe's glossa tickled over his audial, his servos squeezing Ratchet's wrists, only to loosen. Not enough for Ratchet to jerk free, but enough for Sideswipe to slide his servos upward, palms gliding over the plating on Ratchet's arms in a dizzying burr of metal on metal. Ratchet's optics shuttered of their own accord, intakes hitching.  
  
Sunstreaker's palms on his aft were a bare brush, but Ratchet startled nonetheless. He never thought his plating could be so sensitive, but it was. Every sensor beneath the outer armor was inflamed, responding to the slightest prickle of recognized touch.  
  
Ratchet moaned, long and low, hips canting toward Sunstreaker.  
  
A soft chuckle spilled into the silence, one of Sunstreaker's servos dipping down, between Ratchet's legs, swiping over the heated panel concealing his valve. “You're hot,” Sunstreaker purred, tracing the rim, knowing just how to touch to make Ratchet's panel pop right open. One digit instantly plunged inside. “And wet.”  
  
Ratchet arched, hips surging toward Sunstreaker, hoping for more. His aft felt as though it were on fire, and the heat in his interface only made it worse.  
  
“Really?” Sideswipe said, his tone a bit awed. “Frag, I wanna see. Come on, bro. Trade places with me.”  
  
“No.” Sunstreaker's digit slipped free, both servos returning to Ratchet's aft where they slid over sensitized plating. “You don't have the patience for doing it right.”  
  
“Do, too,” Sideswipe argued, the heat from his frame washing over Ratchet, the scent of heated metal filtering to his olfactory sensors.  
  
“If you're going to argue then let me go,” Ratchet demanded, tugging on his arms. He had an itch that needed scratching and he wasn't going to be ignored. “I have better things to do than--”  
  
Smack!  
  
Ratchet's entire frame jerked forward, the open-palmed slap to his aft ringing through the air and reverberating across his plating. It hurt more this time, as though the pause, the soothing ministrations of Sunstreaker's digits, only made the sensation that much sharper.  
  
Ratchet moaned, a heavy ventilation escaping him.  
  
“What was that?” Sideswipe asked, the mischief in his vocals all too telling, though they sounded rougher around the edges. “I think I missed it.”  
  
Another swat landed on Ratchet's aft, and then another, three more in crisp succession. Heat prickled across his plating, sensors going haywire, translating pain and pleasure and desire that flooded him from helm to pede. His hips twitched, valve clutching on empty air.  
  
Ratchet wanted to move, needed to move, but the twins kept him pinned, and so he could only vibrate against his desk. His cooling vents flared wide open, heated air expelling in an obvious _whoosh_.  
  
He could all but hear the smirk in Sunstreaker's voice.  
  
“I think he likes it, Sideswipe,” Sunstreaker purred, digits tapdancing on Ratchet's aft, his other servo circling a digit around the rim of Ratchet's valve. “I've got all the evidence we need right here.”  
  
Ratchet growled wordlessly. His sensors flashed in a roaring wave of heat, demanding more.  
  
“I dunno,” Sideswipe said in a voice that spelled trouble. “I could use a little more convincing.” His servos squeezed in alternating rhythms as he dragged them back down Ratchet's arms, making him tingle.  
  
“It couldn't hurt,” Sunstreaker agreed.  
  
Ratchet begged to differ. It could hurt. A lot in fact, but apparently, he didn't get a vote because Sunstreaker started up again in earnest. Quick, glancing smacks to his aft that skittered across his plating and left prickles of fire in their wake.  
  
Ratchet's lower half became a thing of motion, completely without his consent. His pedes kicked at the floor, his hips swiveled away from Sunstreaker, not that it affected the golden twin's aim. Ratchet's engine rumbled, his vents roared, desire curling and coiling through him like a twisting gyre.  
  
He was going to be so fragging sore tomorrow. His self-repair would be running in overdrive to replace overworked sensors and damaged plating and dear Primus, why was this so fragging _hot_?  
  
His vision shifted. No, that was Sideswipe in front of him. The red frontliner scooted back and down, until their optics could meet, Sideswipe's blazing with emotion, no small amount of lust.  
  
“Look at you,” he all but crooned, digits sweeping soft, arousing patterns through Ratchet's sensitive wrist joints and tingling digits. “You're so close, aren't you? Just teetering on that edge.”  
  
Indignation coiled in Ratchet's vocalizer, but what emerged was a hungry moan, dangerously close to a whine. Need throbbed through his interface, valve cycling on nothing as lubricant coated the walls, his spike knocking against his panel and demanding to be released.  
  
And all the while Sunstreaker's servo struck a relentless rhythm on Ratchet's aft, each strike carefully placed, overlapping and torturous and setting his armor aflame. He ground his hips against the desk, less to escape and more to express his need for more.  
  
It felt like someone had taken a blowtorch to his aft plating. His poor, confused sensors didn't know how to translate the sensations, sending him confused pings of pain and pleasure and more and harder and _dear Primus don't you dare stop or I'm going to rip off someone's arm_.  
  
He moaned, long and low, humping his own fragged desk and he didn't have it in him to care anymore.  
  
Sideswipe's ex-vents were rough, stuttering, the heat of his energy field rising and crashing over Ratchet, arousal so thick it nearly smothered him. “Oh, slag,” the red twin breathed, digits squeezing on Ratchet's arms in steady rhythms. “You're gonna overload like this, aren't you? Primus, I wanna see it. Come on, Sunny. Hit him harder.”  
  
Ratchet's processor thought this was a terrible idea.  
  
His frame and spark and spike all had different opinions.  
  
“Yes,” he hissed, denta gritted, aft pushing up toward Sunstreaker, lubricant leaking from his valve in steadying drips. “Don't you dare stop!”  
  
Sideswipe let go of his arms, servos cupping Ratchet's face, pulling him forward a few precious inches, his mouth falling over Ratchet's with eager intent. His glossa plunged into Ratchet's mouth, lips vibrating against Ratchet's, betraying his own arousal.  
  
Sunstreaker struck Ratchet's aft hard enough to vibrate through his frame and Ratchet cried out into the kiss, pain flaring, turning into a hard, throbbing heat. He scrabbled at the desk, desperate for a hold, arms flailing until he managed to hook his fingers in Sideswipe's lateral armor. The position was awkward, the desk digging hard into his hips, but the annoyance was distant compared to the ecstasy building within him.  
  
Sideswipe sucked on his lips, nibbled with his denta, eager noises spilling from his vocalizer. “I'm going to frag you next,” he murmured against Ratchet's mouth, digits squeezing just this side of uncomfortable on Ratchet's faceplate. “Take you so hard you'll be cleaning paint scrapes off your desk for weeks.”  
  
Ratchet moaned, processor helpfully supplying him with vivid images.  
  
“Not if I get you first,” Sunstreaker said, his ventilations stuttered, and his palm smacked against the side of Ratchet's aft, landscape previously untouched.  
  
“Could do that, too,” Sideswipe agreed. “Then I get you next, push into you, all slick thanks to Sunny's transfluid. Your office will smell like overloads and every mech who comes in here will know what you've been up to.”  
  
Sunstreaker let loose a strangled moan, his energy field thickly lined with unrepentant desire. His servos grasped Ratchet's aft, digits squeezing down hard, plating threatening to buckle. He bucked his hips, closed interface rubbing against Ratchet's uncovered valve, a light scrape over his sensitized aft.  
  
Ratchet's valve clenched eagerly. “Fragging tease!” he snarled, digits shoving into the gaps of Sideswipe's armor, sending surges of charge directly into the red twin's substructure.  
  
Sideswipe yowled, there was no dignified word for that sound, and all but climbed onto the desk, his mouth crashing over Ratchet's with little grace. It was an action of pure need, the scent of heated metal and impending overload so thick in the air.  
  
The sound of a panel clicking open echoed like a gunshot in the silence, immediately followed by Sunstreaker snarling a curse before he snapped his hips forward, spike plunging into Ratchet's valve.  
  
He arched, calipers instantly cycling down, clutching on the thick spike, every sensor singing to life. Sunstreaker's plating clanged against his sore aft, but the pain was a distant memory to the pleasure that attacked Ratchet from all directions. He shook from helm to pede, overload slamming through his frame and sending him into an erotic spasm.  
  
His mouth broke away from Sideswipe's, face pressing into the red twin's throat as he screamed through his overload, fingers clenching tightly. He couldn't control anything, not himself, not the frantic clasping of his valve, the eager spurt of lubricant, or the crawl of electricity dancing down his frame, lighting up his office.  
  
“Oh, frag,” Sideswipe moaned, clattering against the desk, trying to wriggle his way between Ratchet and the furniture, interface panels open and ready. “Another. Give us another. C'mon, Ratch,” he babbled, servos clutching, heat pouring off his frame in steady waves.  
  
Ratchet moaned, processor unsteady, reaching for Sideswipe's frame, eagerly pawing at the red armor, even as Sunstreaker's thrusts continued, relentless, spike pushing and sliding and raking over every desperate sensor in Ratchet's valve. He didn't have the chance to cycle down from the overload before another began to build within him.  
  
Sunstreaker gripped his hips, jerking him backward, granting enough space for Sideswipe to finally wriggle himself where he wanted to be. Ratchet was taller than both of them, but the desk was a perfect height and Sunstreaker's grip was firm.  
  
Sideswipe's thighs bracketed Ratchet's hips, his panel pouring heat and lubricant, servos hooking into Ratchet's chassis in wordless plea. Ratchet's spike panel retracted in autonomic response to the nearness of Sideswipe's valve and he pushed into his lover with nothing short of pure hunger.  
  
Sideswipe keened, hips awkwardly surging up, meeting Ratchet's rather shallow thrust. “More,” he urged, valve clutching at Ratchet's spike, so slick with lubricant that it spilled onto Ratchet's thighs. “ _Harder_.”  
  
“Demanding brat,” Ratchet huffed and dipped his helm, denta and glossa attacking Sideswipe's sensitive neck cables.  
  
Sunstreaker slammed into him, shoving him forward, deeper into Sideswipe. Both of them groaned in tandem, the energy fields swirling through the office a maelstrom of lust and need. Ratchet could feel the pulses of Sideswipe's spark and the surges of Sunstreaker's behind him, heat swamping over his frame and drowning him in sensation.  
  
One energy field fed into the other, lust snapping between them as fast as the electrical charge spilling over their plating. Ratchet bucked and thrust and writhed and moaned, unsure which was up or down, just knowing that he needed more.  
  
More of Sunstreaker shoving into him.  
  
More of Sideswipe rippling around him, telltale signs of an impending overload.  
  
Ratchet moaned against Sideswipe's neck cables, helpless to his desire. He heard Sunstreaker utter a static-laden sound, felt the increased pace of his lover's thrusts, the telling twitch of Sunstreaker's digits, and following it all, the hot wash of transfluid in his valve, jetting across his sensors.  
  
Sideswipe jerked his hips upward, forcing Ratchet deeper into him, a spiraling cry escaping his vocalizer. His valve undulated, as though pulled into overload by the wake of Sunstreaker's own. He bucked against Ratchet, surrendering himself to the pleasure, and Ratchet's hips twitched, eager to feel his second overload, eager to fall over that edge once more.  
  
Ratchet twitched his pelvic array, spike sinking into Sideswipe's soaking valve, his own calipers squeezing on Sunstreaker's spent spike. He dragged his mouth up, claiming Sideswipe's, eager for the moment when he could turn around and claim Sunstreaker's as well. Arousal tightened like a coil inside of him, throbbing to the beat of his spark, vents roaring at full blast--  
  
 _Smack_!  
  
Another open-palmed whack to his aftplates jolted Ratchet, pain flaring up only to be quickly smothered by pleasure. The pressure burst like an overladen dam, release spiraling through his systems, tunneling through his frame and exploding from his spike in a surge of transfluid.  
  
Ratchet collapsed forward, splaying himself over Sideswipe, vents roaring in a desperate attempt to cool his frame. He tingled everywhere, circuits giving off tiny zaps of sated charge. The berth sounded good right now. The berth and some energon and – he shifted experimentally – maybe an application of desensitizing gel.  
  
“Primus, that was hot,” Sideswipe exclaimed, his words peppering the quiet as he dropped his servos to Ratchet's back, patting him gently.  
  
Ratchet made a wordless noise with his vocalizer, lacking the energy to be indignant or berate his mischievous lover.  
  
“Glad you agree,” Sunstreaker said, his servos resting on the sides of Ratchet's hips, carefully avoiding his sore aftplates, as he withdrew from Ratchet's valve. “Next time, it's your turn.”  
  
A rumble of amusement resonated through Ratchet's engine. “Not much of a punishment. He'd enjoy it too much.”  
  
“And you didn't?” Sideswipe chortled before peppering a kiss on Ratchet's chevron. “But as much as I enjoyed it, this desk is not comfortable at all.”  
  
“Sparkling,” Sunstreaker accused, but he backed off nonetheless, offering servos to Ratchet so that he could stand as well.  
  
Only to wince as cables unkinked, struts straightened, and his plating shifted. Fire bloomed across his aft, and it no longer held the edge of pleasure. Ratchet hissed, clenching his servos to keep himself from reaching back and touching the sore plating.  
  
Worry warbled through Sunstreaker's energy field, the touch placed to Ratchet's shoulders measurably gentle. “You okay?”  
  
“Fine,” Ratchet said. The overloads were worth the lingering discomfort. “Nothing a little self-repair won't fix.”  
  
Sideswipe hefted himself up, splaying over Ratchet's desk with unabashed glee. “So you're not mad at us?”  
  
“I didn't say that,” Ratchet corrected, and half-turned, servo grasping Sunstreaker's helm and dragging the yellow twin toward him for a much-needed, much-craved kiss. His digits stroked Sunstreaker's helm, feeling the yellow twin vibrate against him.  
  
Well, maybe he could work up enough energy for a couple more overloads. Or at least enough to watch while his partners fragged each other.  
  
Yeah, that sounded just fine to him.  
  


***


End file.
